Pillows
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: Tag for 7x10. "His use of profanity should have shocked her. He was never profane with her, before. Such a gentleman." This is a noir-themed one-shot taking place the night after Michelle Vega's funeral. Trigger warning for a murder. Rated M for violence, profanity, and sex-but has a happy ending.


He'd left her at the cemetery.

Lisbon drove around Austin, debating whether or not to seek out Cho or maybe even Wylie. The poor kid reminded her of one of her brothers, so bereft.

It was summer, and summer in Austin that year seemed especially hot and humid. This night, the mugginess clung to Lisbon's body as she tossed and turned in her bed. Not even the air-conditioning seemed to help.

Lately, she'd been having nightmares. Those nightmares began right after her undercover stint in prison. They'd steadily worsened ever since Jane began making comments about her job. Actual nightmares were a new experience for Lisbon. They weren't constant-she'd certainly had many nights of blissful sleep. Sleep that was only interrupted by the fulfillment of sexual desires and wants, by expressions of love and sexual comfort. But then her daytime life had turned into a nightmare as her beloved Patrick had slowly slipped away from her, regressing into the Jane of the early days of the CBI.

Yet even tonight, after he'd so ambiguously left her, when she fell asleep, her last waking thoughts were of Jane, and she always woke up thinking about Jane. She loved him.

But he doesn't like the work you do, she reminded herself. It's not your fault that he can't be normal and believe in a religion or see a counselor or go to rehab. Did they even have rehab for unresolved grief coupled with selfish obsession? And come to think of it, why wasn't she enough for him?

Now, during this muggy night, just barely a year since she'd so magically taken the leap of faith to get off the airplane to DC, her nightmare would be the same as always: involving a struggle, and a man's screams. Jane's screams.

Strangely enough, not the screams of passion, she thought. And even as she remembered those sounds of passion, her hand betrayed her, wandering southward, starting the process of pleasuring herself.

She saw his face in the throes of passion and wondered if she'd ever see him that way again.

Soon, she gave up. Sexual gratification was not important any longer. Not when he wasn't there. Lisbon fell asleep, her damp t-shirt and panties clinging to her body.

And then the nightmare began. She turned in her sleep, once more, her t-shirt still clinging, still sticky.

* * *

It was around three AM. Lisbon had arisen and tracked down Jane's Airstream. He'd perversely left her a clue as to his "somewhere nice." Even more perversely, he was still near Austin, just up in the Hill Country. Near a winery.

She still had her own key to the Airstream. She stopped for a second as she unlocked the door, wondering just why she was there, and why she was now...knocking, no banging, on the Airstream door.

After a beat or two, a sleep-addled Jane opened the door and immediately, his eyes clouded with concern.

She noticed that he was only clad in boxers.

What? He'd always insisted on wearing full-on formal pajamas the entire time they were sleeping together.

Jane, on his part, noticed that Lisbon was only clad in a damp t-shirt and skimpy panties. Had she really made her way to the Airstream dressed like that?

"Lisbon?"

The bastard was surprised that she'd shown up, disheveled, in the middle of the night. Hell, what did he expect?

He squinted at her, then ushered her in. Her hair was bed-head at its worst, and her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

"Lisbon?" Jane asked again, obviously concerned.

"So you remember who I am," she stated sarcastically.

"Lisbon." This time, just a statement from him, resigned, almost sighing.

"Wow. A rocket scientist. The forest must be rubbing off on you."

"Lisbon. Come on." Again, his tone was resigned, and he definitely sighed, hanging his head, the same way he always did. The last time she'd seen that look was at a dead Vega's bedside.

She snorted, and tossed her head, her hair just damply clinging to her head.

"What's wrong? Are you OK?" he inquired.

"OK?" Her voice was still calm, just more assertive. "Hell no! I've been ditched again, by you!" She pushed him aside with a curt shove to the chest with one hand as she stumbled inside his silver abode. "Gotta hand it to you, Jane. Other guys cheat with floozies. You, you cheat with your ego and your dead wife."

If she'd had any more dignity left, her conscience would have been stricken.

A veneer of sorrow and shock fleetingly passed over his face.

"Uh, Lisbon, have you been drinking?"

"What?"

"Of course not, Lisbon. I'm sorry. Come, sit down." Jane motioned to his table and bench.

Jane looked at her with concern, and the more concerned he seemed, the more irritated Lisbon became.

She clenched her fingers into fists and balled them against her knees. "Damn it, Jane, why?"

A little taken aback, Jane reached his hand out automatically for her face; she turned away.

"Oh, okay, sorry," he told her, his tone regretful and sad. "I never meant..."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound the humming of the swamp cooler attached to the Airstream.

Suddenly, Lisbon spoke once more, in the most detached, dispassionate voice Jane had ever heard her use. "Take me to bed, Jane."

"Are you tired?"

"Hell no. Fuck me, Jane, one last time."

Lisbon pulled her t-shirt over her head, continuing with her demand. "You owe me. You. Owe. Me. For everything you put me through."

Her voice was still dispassionate; and her eyes had turned distant and cold, Jane noted with a pang.

"Lisbon..." Jane tried to put as much compassion into his voice as he could.

"What, Jane? What did I ever do but help you and then love you?"

And that's when his eyes noticed it. The cross necklace around her neck was gone.

Seemingly oblivious to her nakedness, Lisbon followed the track of his eyes and her hand flew to her throat.

"So you noticed," she dryly explained.

"Why, Lisbon..."

"Fuck you." She got up and began to stagger towards the bed. A bed she ALWAYS had hated. What grown man with a lot of money sleeps on a rickety sleeper in a trailer?

There's nothing sexy about this, he thought, as he watched her stumble.

But even so, Jane was a man, and this woman was still beautiful and a man's body will betray him every time. He wasn't the one who'd wanted to destroy their relationship; he gave her the choice, he rationalized, as his eyes followed Lisbon as she reached the bed.

He arose and followed, sitting next to her. He tentatively reached out to squeeze her breast.

She rolled away.

"Why, Jane?" she asked, matter-of-factly.

"It was just so overwhelming. I just can't bury another woman I love. You know what happened to me. I told you. I can't deal with... "

"Bullshit," Lisbon replied, her voice once again even. "You know, I thought I knew you, Jane. Knew how your mind worked." Lisbon took a deep breath, hesitating, before boldly proceeding. "But you know what? The joke's on poor Lisbon. I fucking waited for you, Jane, even when I had no hope that you'd come back from your exile. I thought you were worth it. Better than Pike," she bitterly proclaimed. "But ya know what?"

"What?" Jane answered, flatly.

"I found out the one big thing. That there's a lot I don't know about you. I wasted my prime childbearing years on you."

"No, no," Jane replied softly. "No, no."

"Poor, stupid, Lisbon. I kept listening to your alleged concern for my safety. But it was always about you, the great mentalist. What the hell is that, anyways?" Her voice seemed to slur. "All you care about is how you feel. Tell me, Jane, what if I had gotten cancer? Would you have left then too?"

He was no longer looking at her. Rather, he was looking everywhere else-at the door, at the walls, at the floor. "I'm sorry, Lisbon," he murmured, "So sorry. I didn't..."

"Shut up!" Her voice was now raised.

"But I am sorry," he continued. "I'm sorry that you can't understand my pain. I'm sorry that you love the job more than you love me," his voice hitched.

She laughed, bitterly, and lay down on the bed. Still topless.

Jane was still looking at her, upset, sorrowful. He grabbed a bath towel from the shelf across from the bed and tried to cover her nakedness.

Lisbon reached out to move his arm away.

He persisted in covering her.

"I love you, Jane." Her voice tumbled over the words. "More than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone. More than I ever loved anyone. And this hurts."

"And you know that I love you," he attempted to reassure her.

"Funny way you have of showing me..." she muttered.

"No, let me say this. I love you, Lisbon, more than I've ever loved any woman in my life."

"Ya right. Do you know what it's like being in a relationship with not just you, but your two ghosts?"

Her comment hit him like a jolt of electricity.

Lisbon continued with a short, bitter laugh. And then she bolted upright.

For just a moment, he thought she was the Lisbon, his Teresa, of these recent months. A passionate, loving woman, not this poor bereft broken person in front of him. She leaned towards him, and like a moth to flame, he responded.

Their lips met, and for the longest fraction of a second, one could have interpreted their action as a loving kiss as lips brushed against lips. And then all hell broke loose as she grabbed him and he grabbed her and their mouths thirstily collided.

"Love you," she slurred, moving her mouth to his throat. She flicked her tongue, tasting him, the tea, always the damn tea. Her hands went to his hair, grabbing fistfuls.

In turn, Jane's fingers immediately tangled in her hair, combing through the humid, sticky strands.

"I know-" he responded, as his hand tilted her chin up to him so he could again kiss her, fiercely, desperately. It might be the last time. His tongue brushed against hers, stroking, gliding, then moving over her teeth. He'd never dreamed he'd get to be here again.

Her hands moved to his shoulders and then downward as she traced the contours of his ribs, then his abdomen, downward, downward, until she felt him tremble as her fingers slipped just beneath the waistband of his boxers.

That prompted him to place his hands on her breasts, rubbing his palms lightly over her taut nipples. Jane knew her too well, she thought, as he drew slow, exquisitely tender circles with his palms, barely touching her.

Damn him, she thought, as her body betrayed her as she arched toward him.

But then she realized her power. Beneath her fingers, beneath the boxers, she felt his hardness and heat as she cupped him. When they were together, she often was so gentle at first as she stroked him, tracing his length, his breadth, maddeningly building up the intensity.

But not tonight.

She was rough and demanding as she literally manhandled him, and then released him.

"What the fuck, Lisbon?" he whispered.

His use of profanity should have shocked her. He was never profane with her, before. Such a gentleman.

She slipped off her panties.

"Fuck me, Jane."

For a moment, he couldn't draw a breath. This was a Lisbon he'd never seen. A pang of regret hit him as part of his brain told him that this Lisbon was all his fault.  
"Now, Jane," she demanded, pushing her hips closer to him.

Later, after the last flutters within her had ended, Lisbon felt cheap and used. Even though she had done the using.

* * *

A few hours later as morning threatened, Lisbon awoke. Her arm was flung across his chest and one of his hands encircled her breast. The stickiness between her legs left no doubt as to what had happened earlier. Damn, they'd not used a condom.

Jane was asleep. She tested the waters by first moving, then giving him a slight push. Definitely out for the proverbial count. In return, she felt his weight, dull and heavy, as she pressed her body against his.

"I love you, Jane," she sighed, as she lifted his hand from her breast and placed it alongside his body.

He never knew what happened. Never knew that it was she who grabbed his pillow and placed it, in slow motion, over the mouth she had ravished just mere hours before. He never saw the pillow descending upon his lips, his nose, his eyes; nor did he feel her weight as she smashed herself down upon the pillow, staying there until he no longer moved. He did not see the vacant, faraway, detached look in her eyes as she watched him kick his legs in futile struggle, nor did he hear any reaction to his silenced screams.

No, Jane did not see or hear any of this. And strangely, neither did Lisbon. In her own world, she could not hear him.

After Jane's body went still, Lisbon remained draped over the pillow. "I love you," she whispered, "But this time, you're not in control of the leaving."

* * *

Jane awoke in a cold sweat. His body was drenched as he fought to come to terms with the reality that he had just slept through a horrendous nightmare. His arms clutched his sweat-soaked pillow.

Slowly, he sat up, his heart rate racing.

Lisbon. Oh god, he groaned to himself. Had he really done that to her?

He had.

He looked around the Airstream, searching for her, then remembered that he had given her what amounted to an ultimatum.

No wonder he couldn't sleep in peace.

On this, the day after Vega's funeral, the early morning sun began to illuminate the Airstream with its bright golden light peeking in through the slats of the blinds. From the close nearby woods, he could hear birds chirping, barely audible above the noise of the Airstream's cooler.

Yes he, Patrick Jane, was once more alone. Just how he apparently liked it.

He carefully dressed in his suit pants and a shirt, rolling the sleeves to the elbow.

He'd really screwed up, he realized. How could he not have remembered that together, they were stronger than they could ever be apart? That they fit together like two pieces of a single puzzle: she complemented everything about him.

He needed to fix this.

* * *

The early morning knock on her door woke Lisbon from a fitful sleep. The nightmares had continued all night, and she was already dreading this day.

No matter that she wasn't sleeping well, it still was unpleasant waking from such a fitful slumber. Her nerves were wracked, jangled, and she rubbed her eyes as she blinked away sleep and turned to the door as it opened.

"Jane!" she whispered.

Of course, he still had his key, she remembered.

Jane's face was scrunched, lined.

"I...I couldn't sleep last night," he whispered.

"Nightmare?" she asked, half-joking.

"Yeah."

"It's way too early..." she replied.

"I know."

"You OK?" she asked.

"No," he admitted.

In spite of her sorrow about what he'd said at the cemetery, she still loved him. The thudding heart in her chest only magnified her feelings as instinct took over. At that moment, he was just a boy who needed comfort.

On autopilot, she asked, "Can you remember any of it?"

He was quiet as he sat down on her couch.

"Jane?"

"All of it." He could not look at her as he shuddered. "I messed this up, Teresa..."

She waited for him to continue.

"I'm so sorry, Teresa. You are my best friend and the best thing that ever happened to me."

Lisbon nodded her head.

"I screwed up. The whole job thing. And I never saw it happening." Jane took a deep breath. "I get it, I really do. You're an FBI agent. It's part of you. But I..." He twisted his ring, drawing Lisbon's attention to it. "Do you know the worst part?"

Lisbon squeezed his arm, and signaled him to continue.

"I put you in this position. I've had so many chances to leave you alone. I could have stayed on the island. I could have never insisted you join the FBI in Austin. You would not have known I was back."

"Cho would have told me. Abbott too."

Jane sighed. "I should never have gotten on that plane."

Tears welled in Lisbon's eyes.

He turned to her and took both of her hands in his. "But my Teresa, what I think you don't get is that I can't help myself. I can tell myself that you're a professional, that you're prepared, but then something takes over me and I can't help myself."

"You never told me..."

"I thought I did."

They sat in silence for a beat.

"I'm sorry too, Patrick," Lisbon acknowledged.

"I messed up. I need you, Teresa. I can't do any of this," he vaguely circled a hand in the air, "without you." He swallowed. "It's not worth it."

"I...I feel the same way." She took his hand and sat in silence for a few minutes, her fingers idly tracing another woman's ring.

He looked up at her. "I know...that this bothers you." He indicated the ring.

Her swift head-shake in denial prompted him to add, "Don't tell me otherwise. Please, Teresa."

She nodded, and took his hand. "You know, I think this ring would look wonderful on that hand." She moved her hands to his right hand.

"I'll try, I will get there. With your help." His response was soft but heartfelt.

She reached to him for a hug, before pulling back. Looking down, averting her eyes, Lisbon said, "You know, I've been thinking of asking Cho for a change of assignment."

"It's always a negotiation with you," he chuckled, holding her tight, "isn't it?"

She smiled, and then continued. "Maybe in a couple of weeks. It would just be too hard on him right now, don't you think?"

Patrick Jane gave her a squeeze in affirmation. Gently stroking her hair, he silently resolved to get rid of all the pillows on their bed.


End file.
